To Fix what is Broken
by GothicCheshire
Summary: Before he could truly process what was happening, his thumb was taken between their fingers, and snapped, cybernetics tearing. He screamed, and fear pulsed in him, the first bit of true fear that he has felt, and he knows they feel it, too. Alternatively: The time Rocket lost the use of his hands...
1. The

_Grow, grow, grow… _

The little sapling knew very little at this stage, he knew that he was Groot, and the others, the bigger others, they were also Groot. They were _his_.

_Get strong, get big…_

He did not remember how, he, in fact, did not remember much at all. He was too busy growing, pulling strength from the soil, light, and water that they gave him. The smaller one, the one closer to his height, covered in something soft, was always with him, always making sure he was alright.

_Dig deep, burry roots…_

The soft one was his favorite, hazy images dancing just out of his reach as for why, but he did not have time to remember them. He needed to grow. He needed to get strong. He did know, though, that the soft one understood him. Understood his words behind the only words he spoke. In turn, Groot knew his.

_Grow, grow, grow… _

The others did not understand, but they listened, they tried. He liked them. He liked their care, their concern, their gentleness. He could _feel_ them. He could feel their life, the color that belonged to each of them.

The largest one's color was red. Warm, sturdy, and above all, powerful. It had been overwhelming for the sapling when he first encountered it, almost too much, burying him in his force. It took him a while to realize there was a loneliness to it as well, a hollow, empty ache that longed for something Groot did not know. He froze when the other looked at him at times, but that life began to comfort him when he realized that it reached out to his. It sought to protect, and Groot entwined his gold with the red, and no longer felt as frightened. If it made that hollow loneliness that much less, then it was worth it. He even let him see him dance. But only sometimes. It was a game now, and while Groot may not know much, he knew that he liked games

_Drink water, grow big…_

The green one - of a color deeper than even _his_ leaves- theirs was the color of deepest blue, calm, but impossibly cold. He had been intimidated by it at first, the chill seeming to be directed at him, at the gold of his life, at the others'… But he realized what it was doing. This was a color that had been hurt, that sought the warmth, and did not know its own chill. It merely wanted what they had and took for granted. It wanted their warmth. Groot took that blue, and wrapped it with his own, sought to warm, sought to comfort. If he wound the red with the blue as well… It gave them something to lean on, as he was busy growing.

_Light, bright, warm…_

There was another life, also bright, also warm, yellow and bubbling, instinctively seeking others, and Groot happily weaved that aura around the others, around his own gold. They were there to brace the others, giving them something to soothe. Give them balm to heal their hurts. He liked the yellow, the way it danced, the way it moves to the beat of the 'music' that he loves so much, the way it's almost always cheerful. There was a brittleness to the warmth, sometimes, an emptiness that comes without warning, and lasted too long. He tugged the others close to the yellow, warms him when he can't do it himself. These are the days when they dance.

_Reach up, get tall…_

The last life is like fire, orange and crackling, and while something instinctive warns danger, something deeper, something that sings from his roots to his crown, screams that this life is his friend, that this is a color he _knows_. He weaves this one to the others tightly, particularly when he finds that underneath the crackle, there is something deeper, something frightening.

Underneath the fire, underneath the spitting, the sparks, it was lonelier than the red, more brittle than the yellow, and it was more frigid than the blue. Groot took this aura with the utmost care, wrapping it with his gold, wrapping it with theirs, keeping it in the middle of it all, but it remained the same. Spitting sparks for distraction, while all the while, underneath, it was lonely and broken. This must not be so… He tried to tell him often, but his words were ignored.

_Must get big, must get strong…_

Together they were copse, together they were…family. The word often building up in him and bubbling out in a soft: "We are Groot," when he spoke. Which they were, they were Groot, they were his, he was theirs.

_Grow, grow, grow…_

Then one day, something broke through the need to get strong, the need to grow. The orange, the one that was lonely and broken, screamed out, the link shrieking of pain, of fear.

_Wait…_

Groot opened his eyes, blinking in the light, looking around the ship for a sign of what was wrong. _Wrong, wrong, wrong…_ Something was wrong, something was terrible. It grew and spread up the link, the other three rippling with the aftershocks. There was panic rushing through the other three colors, a frenzied sort of desperation, and suddenly Groot no longer cared that he needed to grow. He needed to know what was wrong.

_Wait, wait and see…_

That was when he noticed that the orange was being taken farther away from the other three, that that spitting, desperate color was being stolen… He did not mind that the other four often left him alone. He knew that they must go, just as he knew that he needed to grow. They would always come back and he was never truly lacking for anything. Usually one would remain with him, but this time had been different. Their colors had crackled with unease in the beginning, but there was a fight and determination to them as well. He had trusted them to be alright, but it was becoming clear that they needed him.

_Grow…_

He needed to wake up.

_Must grow._

He needed to be big, he needed to be strong.

_Grow. Grow…_

The one thing he did remember, the elders' words of warning, chastising that they must be careful in their growth, lest they cause undue distress to their bodies, was finally and harshly ignored.

_Grow!_

They were calling to him, to each other, to the orange, who was being taken progressively farther away…

_Grow!_

He was needed.

_Grow!_

He stretched his arms upright, absorbing the riches in the pot, taking in all the light, soaking in the water, gaining legs, spindly, green, but whole, good. More soil, more fertilizer, more light, more water. He was needed, and he needed in turn. They kept them all close, ready when for it was necessary, and it was necessary now.

_Grow! Grow! __**Grow!**_

"I am _**Groot**_!"

Finally, finally, he stood, towering at a height that felt _right_, just barely starting to brown, bark still tender, still green in spots, and let his memory seek to fill in the gaps. He needed it all in order to help.

_Remember, know, be…_

The first to come were names, words that the other beings called themselves apart from him. Gamora, Drax, Peter Quill –Starlord, and Rocket. Rocket who was orange, spit sparks, and was in desperate peril.

More things came to him, many things, a tide that almost left him dizzy. He took a step and almost crumbled. There may have been truth in the elders' warnings, but he had no time for that.

He was _needed_.

He took a step towards the door, willing his bark to thicken, willing his limbs to be strong.

Needed. He was needed, he was needed, he was _needed_.

He felt stretched, but it was nothing he could not handle. He felt dizzy, but it was passing. With every breath he took, with every memory he glimpsed, he found a new drive to continue. His copse needed him. He in turn, needed them.

Groot finally belonged somewhere, with an entire group of them, each a different color of the spectrum, each a different part of a whole.

They were Groot.

…

They had failed.

Peter was yelling, what, Gamora didn't know. She believed that it must be the same thing that they were all feeling. The same thing they were all thinking. Blood-stained, battered, and torn as they were… She had never felt so vulnerable. So exposed. Not even the knives of the surgeons of Thanos had unmade her so… Her thoughts, her feelings, all torn up and ripped from her, shaken, laughed over, and left. But that was nothing, nothing compared to the pain of losing a member of their own.

She remained where she was, kneeling in the midst of a long strip of dirt, torn up from her body impacting the ground. Her shoulder was dislocated, having taken the brunt of the landing, her arm hanging limply, yet she couldn't find it within herself to care. Not yet.

Gamora had felt the full force of their attention for only a few moments, enough to dig through her history, dig through her past, and rip everything to the forefront. Her parents, their screams, the flames burning the planet down around her.

Thanos.

The tests, the pain, the fear, the agony… Her sisters, Ronan…

All there, before her eyes to see again. They had left her more than a little numb.

She was aware of what facing them would be like. She thought she had been prepared. They all thought they had been prepared. It was agreed. Each of them had known the risks, they had all known the potential price…

It did not make it any better. It did not make their loss, their _failure_, any easier to cope with.  
>She forced herself to struggle through the memories, struggle through the mire. She was needed, they were all needed.<p>

She had faced them for but moments before she was discarded. Rocket would be stuck with them for much longer.

It was with this thought that determination finally coursed through her again, and she forced the echoes of the half-remembered voices in her brain to keep silent. She crossed her limp arm over, gripped her elbow, and jerked her arm back into place. It went back into position with a wet pop as she stood.

Peter had stopped yelling, his back to her, and Drax farther away than either of them. They stood still for a moment, immobile, and then Peter turned towards her. She noticed with a jolt that his eyes were wet, noticed with a further feeling of shock that hers were, too. Her hand moved up to her face, wiping away the tears that she had not seen in years, and she watched as he did much the same. The both of them looked at the wetness on their hands as though it was an object completely foreign to them, she noticed.

Drax didn't turn around. Gamora could tell from the slant of his shoulders, the way his hands moved up to his face, that he was also suffering from the same effects of having his mind ripped open.

"What are we going to tell Groot?" Peter's voice split the silence, cracking slightly due to his yelling, she was sure. Regardless, the question gave them pause.

There was a moment of silence, the vision of Groot, kind, loving, and entirely too good for them, _Groot_, and his reaction to this dancing in their minds. In that one moment Gamora had her answer.

"We tell him that we're going to get him back." Her voice was laced with steel, and the other two immediately looked over to her. She watched as Drax's back straightened, as Peter's expression finally fell into determined certainty. There was none of his usual cockiness, but she didn't expect there to be. They were too aware of what they were up against. But it wouldn't stop them. This was just a temporary set-back.

They would get Rocket back.

….

Rocket woke up to the smell of something he never wanted to experience again. His mind felt as though it was wrapped in cotton, his thoughts sluggish to the point that initially he didn't know why this strange, clean smell would be something he didn't like. And then something clicked and he knew what it was.

The sharp, acrid smell of anesthetic.

His brown eyes snapped open, adrenaline rushing through his system to banish the cotton. It did nothing to banish the sight around him.

Harsh white light burned into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. It was a situation he had found himself in too many times to want to count. His breathing sped up along with his heart-rate as he tried to move his arms and legs. It came as no surprise that he couldn't.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, not again, not again, no, no, no, no, no…_

His mind screamed, and he jerked again, writhing against his bonds, his eyes still attempting to get used to the light. He hurt. Everything hurt.

Rocket choked back a sound that wanted to escape, the kind of sound he quit making years ago, taught by pain and fear that it was not _right_. He forced himself to regulate his breathing, still shuddering. He needed to be strategic about this. He could escape. He was able to get out of many prisons, many traps, this would be no different. He was okay. It would be okay.

He wished his mind was better at lying to itself.

He laughed, a choked, half-hysterical sound, staring around at the white, the light, at the wires, the knives, the needles… Panic was a real thing, bubbling up in his chest and throat, and he desperately tried to tamp it down.

That was when they came.

They were not _them_. They were not the ones who had made him what he was, but that did not matter.

They were worse.

Rocket closed his eyes, turning his head away, gritting his teeth. He knew it wouldn't do anything. They didn't need to look into his eyes to know him. They already did. They already had. They knew what secrets beat beneath his breast and he hated them for it.

"_Subject 89P13…" _

His ears flattened to his head, fighting against the odd intrusive feeling of a voice that was not just speaking to him, but was ringing in his mind. The odd clicking, gurgling of their actual spoken voice combined with the dry, hissing sound in his head was almost too much, made him cringe, his hackles instinctively rising.

Protests to the name rose up like bile in the back of his throat, but he knew better. He bit them back, quite literally, sharp teeth sinking into his tongue, not enough to draw blood, but most certainly a physical reminder to _not say a thing_.

"_Stubborn, angry, violent, intelligent. Above all, proud. Proud of all you have done, proud of what you know, about what you can do. But underneath…" _A clawed finger trailed up his belly to rest over his heart, and Rocket shuddered, jerking away from it_. "Such fear you have." _The claw tore through his suit, pressed into flesh, running down his jumpsuit from his heart to his leg, tearing a long slit into both his outfit and his skin.

His teeth did draw blood then, welling up in his mouth. He swallowed, shuddering at the awful tang, but kept his eyes shut, kept his mouth closed.

Say nothing, think nothing, be nothing.

"_Such beautiful, wonderfully appetizing __**fear**__." _

His breath escaped in harsh little pants, the rest of the jumpsuit cut from him, peeled away to leave him exposed before the bright lights and the _eyes_. He could not see them, but he could feel them, boring into him.

There was one disadvantage to keeping his eyes shut.

The feeling of a scalpel cutting into the flesh on his shoulder was both sudden and agonizing, and it finally made him open his mouth as his eyes flew open, a strangled scream managing to escape despite his best efforts. For as familiar as the feeling was, it was not one he had experience in a while.

It cut along the cybernetics in his shoulder, a line he was very familiar with, and that was the moment Rocket made eye-contact. Black, hollow, empty eyes stared down into his, and everything he was, was once again dissected, torn, and found lacking.

In that instant, Rocket no longer cared.

"I'm not afraid of you!" he cried out, tugging at his restraints, looking up at them. Hate burned in his throat, lending him bravery. "You flarkin' assholes don't scare me!" He watched as those eyes tilted slightly along with the owner's head, a head he couldn't see, a body he didn't recognize. All that mattered was those eyes, and he couldn't look away.

"This is nothing! I've been through this. Nothing is _new_! Let me guess, after this you're going to dissect me, you're going to rip me open, see what happens, then you're going to put me back together again, right? You literally think that _that's_ going to scare me?" He laughed, loud and long, regardless of the cut in his shoulder that went to the bone, the pain that tore into him with every breath. "But guess what, assholes, I'm not scared of you, because I'm not alone! They'll find me! They'll come for me!"

Rocket realized his mistake the moment the words left his lips. Their warnings about the ones before him, about their eyes, about the way they loosened tongues to spill secrets, to give them more fuel…

"_Come for you?" _The voice in his head dug deeper, that rasp of dry leaves across pavement almost laughing.

"_Why would they come for you?"_ It asked, soft, insidious, the words accompanied by another slice in his other shoulder, one he writhed away from.

"_Do you honestly think that they _care_ about you?"_

A needle came up, resting against his right arm, empty.

"_Who would care about you?"_

It was pressed into his flesh, harsh, filling with blood as Rocket tried to squirm away. Useless, pointless, the restraints too tight. Even so, he wouldn't have been able to escape that _gaze_.

"_You're a freak." _

Another cut was made and he belatedly remembered that there was more than one.

"_Nothing more than vermin." _

The words cut into him deeper than the scalpels, and before he knew it, he was screaming.

"_You play at being the hero, but you know deep down what you truly are." _

But it didn't matter.

"_You know that it's only a matter of time before they figure it out, too…" _

He can still hear them, their words digging into his brain and refusing to let go.

"_A monster." _

The worst of it is, it's not just their words they're whispering in his ears and in his mind.

They're his. His thoughts, his emotions, torn out and whispered back at him, and he found that he couldn't find it in himself to contest them. They're true. All true. Freak, vermin, _monster_…

"_Useless." _

"I'm not useless!" Rocket screamed out before he could stop himself, before he could force himself to look away from those eyes, and they bore into him forcing words from his throat. "I'm not useless," he hissed, writhing, but his eyes are still locked, and he can't look away, and he hates them. He _hates_ them for the words that tear themselves from his throat. "I can fix things, I can create things. They owe me their lives a few times over 'cause o' that"

There was a pause as they stared at him, and he wanted to scream, wanted to writhe further, but his limbs have all been sliced into. They had avoided cutting into his stomach, into his vitals, and while the lines of blood were deep, very few of them were long. He would take a while to bleed out, but he didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

Rocket didn't care about the incisions when hands slowly went out to his, clawed hands running their way along his much smaller ones. They traced each black-padded finger gently and then took his thumb between two of theirs. Before he could truly process what was happening, it was taken between their fingers, and _snapped, _cybernetics tearing.

He screamed, and fear pulsed in him, the first bit of true fear that he has felt, and he knows they feel it, too.

"_Useless." _

And the worst part is, he knows it to be true.

...

**_Oh, it's just so nice to get back to my roots... Wild ride ahead, people. Also, working two jobs and going to school...so updates might be a touch sporadic. I will do my best, but that sort of thing comes first. _**


	2. Beauty

_Alright, another chapter! Sorry about the wait, once again my schedule is like 'woah,' at the moment, so really sporadic updates. Annnd...naturally, that explanation I promised has been pushed back to next chapter. My muse is a jerk. Explanations will be coming... One important thing to remember is this: Not everything is as it first appears. And...on with the chapter._

...

Groot did not pilot much. Before the bounty on Peter Quill and what came after, Rocket was the primary pilot. Groot had never minded. Now that he had his memories back, now that he knew them as more than an aura, as more than a color, he knew more about why Rocket was his favorite. He knew more about why he was empty.

Groot knew more about why he wanted to protect him.

He knew that the most popular theory held amongst his friends as to why Rocket and Groot travelled together was held in the idea that they had come from the same place.

When he had been in the pot they had talked, often over his head, speculating on any number of things. A good few questions had been directed to him, but as he had not been fully himself, the answers had not been known to him. Not that the answers would have been understood by them, regardless, but he had appreciated their attempts to include him.

Rocket had neither confirmed nor denied that version of events, bowing out of conversation around it. As their theory coincided with something they had often sworn to killing the ones involved with, they had let it go. He did not need to remember if he did not want to.

Groot knew, however, that Rocket had in fact been running for long enough to escape from his first prison by the time he met him. It was, in fact, in running from this second prison that Rocket managed to crash-land on the planet that Groot had called home. It was the most exciting moment of Groot's entire life up until that point.

Groot did not remember Planet X with any particular amount of fondness. His kind was one that did not aspire to much more than growing, digging roots deep, looking to the water, appreciating the sun as nothing more than a source of food. Groot, however, had been too busy looking up. There were lights up there, twinkling, golden, and Groot had been unmistakably drawn to them. It was this that gave him the inspiration to learn how to use his spores as a source of light. The others of his kind did not understand him, did not have any interest in the potential around them, and Groot's existence had been very lonely.

That was when Rocket had crash landed and things had changed. Suddenly there was this small being, a good deal similar to a few of the other little creatures that ran around underfoot that were native to his planet, but so very different.

Rocket had crawled out of what, at the time, Groot had taken to be some sort of natural protective covering, and he had been hurt. Rocket had looked up at him, his arm limp, leaking red and Groot… Groot had tried to help.

Flora Colossus were special in the way that they could regenerate themselves after almost near-complete destruction. It was a rare gift, and one they often used to their advantage. Groot had been in fights before, had injuries. As he was something of an outcast there were, at times, fights for territory, or fights for the simple pleasure of fighting. Groot had been forced a few times into remove an arm or a leg so the regrowth could be that much better, stronger. It was sometimes even better to do so than it would be to let it heal on its own.

Rocket and Groot's first meeting basically consisted of Groot trying, and thankfully failing, at removing the mangled limb.

It could have been any number of things that led to his failure. The scream of pain, the look of wariness replaced with one of the deepest fear, the way the small mammal tugged away, so weakly, but as hard as he could… Groot had let go, jerking back as though struck, Rocket doing his best to dart away. He had limped, fallen twice, and was finally cornered by a desperately apologetic Groot, who initially did not understand why this small being was so afraid.

It had taken him a moment to realize that he was not healing. There was no regeneration, no regrowth. Simply more of that liquid, small quivering chest heaving for air. The sudden realization that perhaps he did not rejuvenate, that those limbs were all he had, and a damage must be healed…

Groot had been contrite enough to rip off his own arm, holding it before him, and allowing the wound to heal, allowed another to take its place, letting him see what he had meant to do. It had taken two weeks of consistent attempts with gifts of food and water before Rocket let him approach. It took an attempt on Rocket's life for him to really start to trust the flora colossus.

The ones who had chased Rocket to X had caught up to them.

Ronan had not been the first time Groot had made sacrifices for his friends.

Rocket's reaction to Groot's chest having a hole blown into it, and both of his arms removed had been startling, at first. It was the first time he actually went up to him voluntarily. Rocket had held his hand, screaming that he would be okay, to hang on, which was something he had only learned later. Rocket had not spoken to him for a week after he realized that Groot was okay, and would be okay, healing before his very eyes. He had not forgiven him for this since, it seemed, no matter how often he apologized for scaring him.

This was the crux of the matter, he suspected. Rocket did not like to be scared. He did not like to admit that he _could_ be scared even less, but of all the things in the world, Rocket truly hated the feeling of fear. And Groot knew that in his heart of hearts, Rocket was often afraid. But there was one thing that Groot was even more certain of.

Rocket was also very _brave_.

Groot had a feeling though, as he followed the auras of his friends, that this time his bravery would not help him.

The orange had not stopped screaming for help, desperation making it crackle.

And he would make the ones responsible pay dearly when he caught up to them. The best part of it was, however…he wouldn't be the only one doing so.

….

Peter Quill watched the Milano fly towards them with his heart slowly sinking into his stomach. Drax and Gamora both immediately fell into ready stances, his own guns held out and ready in slightly nerveless fingers. Everything still felt slightly numb and he _hated_ it. It was then that the Milano began going in for a landing, and they slowly tensed.

They didn't know how it got here, they didn't know who could be piloting it. The only one who had been on the ship was Groot…

_Groot_.

Peter felt his heart stop, reaching the conclusion of their small, helpless companion at what seemed to be the moment everyone else did, too. If whoever had taken their ship had hurt Groot…it didn't matter if they rescued Rocket, he would never forgive them for it. The Milano landed and Drax let out a roar, charging the ship, Gamora close on his heels, Peter moving into cover-fire position.

It was a similar set-up to before, only Drax didn't have someone on his six this time. Peter would have to cover both.

The hatch opened, and a loud voice split through Drax's war cry like a hot-knife through butter.

"I am Groot!" it bellowed, causing Gamora and Drax to falter, Peter's guns starting to lower reflexively, their eyes widening. And there he was, ducking under, and walking towards them.

Groot.

Peter felt a smile slowly spreading across his face, moving forward, elation rising into his chest at the sight of their friend standing before them. Gamora and Drax both lowered their weapons, resuming their headlong charge with a different goal in mind.

"Groot!" Peter shouted, charging forward, momentary elation taking the place of his numbness. His smile had spread into a wide beaming grin, his guns holstered as he ran forward.

Groot was greener than he had been before, and also a good deal thinner, almost stretched, but it could not hide the same black eyes that peered at them with a mixture of happiness and concern. That concern made them falter, the realities of their situation catching up to them like a blow to the chest.

"Groot…we lost Rocket…" Gamora spoke softly, her step faltering, before her eyes narrowed, watching the way Groot nodded, jerking his head back towards the ship, beckoning them in. "You knew." It was not a question, a weight of certainty in her tone.

"How did you know to find us, dumb tree? How is it that you have come to be as you are?" Drax asked, his smile fading.

"I am Groot," Groot responded, beckoning them once again, this time with his arms, looking almost like he was trying to draw them in. "I am _Groot_."

Peter frowned, the urgency returning at Groot's almost desperate movements. "Explanations later, after we have Rocket, he'll give us a very thorough translation I'm sure, but we have to get him back first."

Groot hummed at that, nodding, once again beckoning them with his arms. They charged past him, Peter heading to the helm, Gamora with him. Drax and Groot both stood behind them, hovering, before Peter froze.

"…How are we going to find them?" The question drove them to a stop, now that their minds were clear the absolute scale of what they had to do was becoming clear to them. They hadn't managed to slip a tracker on them, they had been too lost to see where they went… They were nomadic. They could have gone anywhere, if they hit lightspeed…

They could be anywhere.

Drax's hand pounded into the bulkhead, just hard enough to cause a ringing clang, hopelessness doing its best to sink into them. But that was the moment when Groot gave another soft hum, and pointed starboard. They paused, staring at him for a moment, hardly daring to hope.

"You know where he is?" Peter asked, staring at him. Groot inclined his head, pointing once again, his expression filled with determination. "Okay. Okay, you pilot…" He started to stand, only for Groot to wave him down, walking over to the soil, fertilizer and water they still had for him, indicating that. "You…you're going to get stronger, big guy?"

"I am Groot." The sharp look in his dark eyes, the kind that screamed death to any who opposed him made Peter grin.

"Alright, but…how do you know where he is?" The question was called over his shoulder as Peter once again started to flip switches, bringing the Milano online and up.

"I am _Groot_." Groot was dragging everything up into the middle of the deck, letting them see him in order to follow his directions, before planting his hands into the mess of moist soil and fertilizer and beginning to feed.

"Should have known." Gamora gave him one of her small not-smiles, but her face was tense.

They had a rescue to get to.

…

Rocket didn't know how long it had been since they left him. He gasped for air, chest heaving, the stinging of the scalpel wounds ignored under the weight of everything else. He had to keep going, even though he could barely breathe. His breathing hitched, his body tensing.

He felt like he was holding two fist-full of needles, his hands still giving soft spasms of pain, twitching at the feeling, and sending more lances of agony up his spine to his skull. He choked back a mewl of pain, his eyes watering. He hadn't looked down, he couldn't look down, couldn't look at what they had done to him. He didn't want to know how bad it was, didn't want to know about the wetness that stuck to his palms, the 'needles' that dug into his flesh. He shivered uncontrollably, sweat and steadily drying blood caking his fur. He strained slightly at the bonds holding him secured to the operating table he had been left on, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his wounds.

He felt fuzzy, his mind traveling a thousand miles in every direction, barely able to stick to any one thought for any length of time. Above all, he hurt. He hurt so much, his body screaming in pain even as his mind seemed to be in a fog. He wondered vaguely how long he had been there and how long it would take for the other Guardians to rescue him. Rocket knew they would come for him. They had to. Groot wouldn't let them do otherwise, regardless of his current state.

They would come.

The fog seemed to be getting thicker, a soft whimper escaping as a jolt of pain once more travelled the length of his spine to his head. Now that they were gone he could breathe, now that they had left him alone the panic that strangled him had dwindled slightly. He still could not get out, but he would be damned if he let them know how much they had affected him. He needed to get his breath back, needed to be sure he wouldn't freak out at the sight of them.

The worst part of it was, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to.

Didn't know if he could force back the screams, the whimpers at the sight of them, didn't know if he could keep them separate from _them_. They were so alike, so alike and becoming more alike by the minute, his mind dancing between parallels and making connections. He felt like he was with _them_ most of all. He felt like he was back there, and in the hardest of moments…

He felt like his team wouldn't come for him. He felt like even though they did come for him…they wouldn't help him. That they'd finally see him for the ugly, repulsive little monster he was, and leave him. The worst part was the feeling like he would deserve it.

That was when he heard it.

The faraway sound of an explosion somewhere in the aft deck, there were alarms ringing through the fog in his head, and a bright bubble of hope started to build in his chest. They were coming. He turned his head slightly, facing the door. He didn't care that he was naked, he didn't care that they had never seen him this vulnerable before, that he was still bleeding, that his fur was plastered to his body, or that he was likely the biggest mess they had ever seen, he just wanted to get _out. _

He wanted to go _home_.

He gave a soft whimper as the fuzziness started taking over, wondering vaguely if he was about to fall into unconsciousness, the room seeming to go black around the edges. Rocket remained stubbornly clinging to awareness. He would happily acknowledge he possessed a good many negative qualities, one of the most prominent being a vindictive streak a mile wide. He wanted to see with his own eyes what his team did to the ones who saw fit to, once again, tear him apart and piece him back together again.

The explosions were getting closer, as was the yelling, the sound of voices getting closer to his position, and Rocket had just enough gumption to shout, "I'm in here! I'm in here, get me out!" His shouting was interrupted with a coughing-fit, but it seemed to be worth it as the voices of his team seemed to come for him.

He didn't care if they heard him, he didn't care if the ones who did this gave two fucks about him trying to get help, and decided to hurt him for it. He knew his team. They'd rescue him. They had to.

He really hoped they had one of his bombs with them, he wanted to be the one who rigged the ship to blow, and blowing up this particular lab seemed like a good place to start.

But that was only if he still remained conscious. Why the hell was everything so fuzzy? Did they drug him? He let out a little whimper as for just an instant the pain of shifting shot through the fog, only to be enveloped by it twice as thick as before. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't…

That was when the door finally flew open, Peter Quill in his mask taking the first step in, guns held at the ready. Rocket's head was barely held up right at the moment, lethargy and agony mixing together into a very potent cocktail of misery. Yet as Peter approached, Rocket was more certain than ever that something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but something was wrong, wrong, wrong… He hissed through his teeth, head still bowed, before looking up at Peter with a half-smile, and finally caught sight of the others.

Drax came in, his knives surprisingly blood-free, his expression colder than usual. Gamora followed him, her expression even more unreadable than he had ever seen it. He curled his toes, staring at them, trying his best to ignore the fear building in his chest.

"It's…about…time…" Rocket managed softly, coughing. Then someone else entered, someone he wasn't expecting.

Groot stood there, the same as he had been before, towering over the others, black eyes locked on his. Rocket felt his stomach give a little flip, the sudden joy at seeing his best friend whole and well almost more than he could stand, combined with his current agony it was almost too much.

It took him a moment to realize that none of them were moving towards him, that Peter had made it to within a couple feet of the table he had been strapped to, and was no longer moving forward. The others had paused in their motion, staring down at him, their expressions unreadable. He felt his stomach once again do a sickening lurch, only there was no happiness in the rush.

Rocket felt the smirk slowly die, watching them as they watched him, before giving a soft, "Groot? Are…are you okay, buddy? You… grew awfully fast." He stared at him, watching those black eyes that were the coldest he had ever seen them. Groot had always been warm when looking to him, had always…always…

"I am Groot." Groot's voice was a disinterested rumble.

Rocket felt his heart lurch, his mouth opening. "What, what do you mean I'm not…?" He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe… His breath entered his lungs in little desperate hisses, fingers almost reflexively trying to curl. The agony at the shift sent his head back as his back arched, his tail bristling in agony as he let out a strangled cry. They did nothing to help, standing there as he finally fought his pain down, as he gasped for breath.

"You heard him, Rocket." Peter's voice was bright, almost amused, and Rocket knew something was wrong, but he was hurt, he was so hurt, he couldn't think, his mind was so fuzzy, his nose felt as though it was numb… "We thought we were coming for something worth saving." There was a brief laugh, the mask finally coming down to reveal Peter's expression, pulled into a smirk, and Rocket was still so fuzzy… "Couldn't even escape from this." He rapped the table, the metal clanging, sending a ringing through his body, the metal implants running through his body joining the cry to the point it made his teeth ache. "I thought you were my master escape artist…" a shrug, followed by a sigh of "guess not…"

"Quill…Peter, you…you're joking right? You're not actually…" Rocket gasped out, only to have Peter once again rap on the table.

"Weak, pathetic, useless little rodent…" Drax' voice cut through the pain, making Rocket look at him. There was a tight bundle of something in his chest that hitched painfully every time he tried to breathe.

"I am not useless!" Rocket hissed out, violence in his words. Gamora silenced it with a single touch of her fingers to his hands, his shattered, mangled hands that he had refused to look at for fear of what he would see. He screamed at the lance of agony that shot into his brain, his fingers involuntarily trying to curl only to make it worse.

"Without these…you're worse than useless. You're _nothing_. Just a worthless little test-subject." She frowned at him. "I'm disappointed."

Rocket tried to flinch back, tried to curl in on himself, only to once again be reminded painfully that he couldn't, anger and hurt, and that damn foggy feeling of something being _wrong_ battling for dominance. His breath rattled, and he bit down something rising up in the back of his throat like bile. His eyes stung. Rocket opened his mouth, fighting for the anger he knew that lay deep within him, fighting for the feeling of injustice, and finding _nothing_.

He was numb. A hollow emptiness beating in his chest where his rage used to be, hurt and pain and _fear_ rising up to take its place. They couldn't be serious. This…this had to be a joke. A tasteless, horrible, completely unfunny joke. He looked back, looked beyond them, and met eyes with Groot.

"Groot…" Rocket started softly, body tensing. "Groot, please…" His words died in his throat. Those eyes, those normally warm eyes that stared at you as though you were the entire world…were staring at him as though he was a worm trying to eat its way into his roots.

"Groot…" Rocket whispered, "_please_…"

There was a pause, Groot giving a low rumble as he walked forward until he was staring down at him, looking him over from the tip of his tale to his ears, and Rocket suddenly felt _shame_. He tried once again to curl in over himself, fear and desperation, and…

"I am Groot."

Rocket recoiled as though physically struck, choking as those three words rumbled out in a voice that rippled over him like ice-water. His tail bushed out, ears lying back against his head, his eyes widening in shock, in hurt. "No…Groot, no, please…" he choked the words out, watching Groot's face, watching his eyes, his body trembling.

"_I _am Groot."

"You can't mean that…" Rocket whispered, his body hanging limply, body and soul in desperate pain, fear a knot inside his chest. It was against this fear that he rebelled. "You can't mean that!" He shouted, straining, trying to get at them, trying to force his way out of the restraints. In that moment he didn't care about the pain, he didn't care about the anguish that tore through him. It made his vision hazier and he let out a whimper, falling lax against his bonds. "Groot, guys, please! Please! This isn't funny! I don't know how you got Groot to go along with this sick joke, but…"

"I do not know who is telling these short stories with an amusing ending, but it is not us." Drax's confused voice cut over him, and Rocket flinched back immediately. Drax was many things, but a liar was not one of them.

"We'll be leaving you now, with the monsters." Peter started, turning around and leading the way out. He paused, looking over to him with amused eyes, a smirk on his face. "You'll fit right in, huh? You two practically deserve each other."

They followed him, leaving easily, one by one, Groot the last one to leave. Rocket tried one more time, a soft, "Groot…please…" leaving his lips one more time.

Groot paused, turned around, and stared at him. Rocket felt hope building, watching as his friend stared at him, and finally said softly,

"We are _not_ Groot."

Rocket recoiled as though struck, trembling, his eyes wide, ears flat against his head, tail curling up between his legs, and watched as his friend, his _brother_, walked away, leaving him in the white of the operating room. Something rose in the back of his throat, watching as they left without a backwards glance, something bitter and wretched that tore its way kicking and screaming up his throat and out of his mouth.

It lasted until the ones he had hoped to escape came back and he didn't know when it would stop.

He hated them for it. Hated his team for being lying, betraying bastards, who would leave him to this hell. He hated Peter, with his smug grin, his comments that pricked too deep, Gamora with her stoicism, Drax with his honesty, Groot…

_Groot_… That noise that he no longer recognized as coming from him hitched, shuddered, and cracked. Hated Groot…with his too big heart, that no longer had a place for the twisted little monster that he shouldn't have been with in the first place.

In that moment…Rocket realized that the one he hated the most was himself, and that only twisted the knife deeper.

He was never going home.

He had never had a home to begin with.


	3. Of

***See end for a few important notes***

...

It had been a simple infiltration.

It helped when you were in possession of a cloaking device. It had been a very recent acquisition, Rocket had haggled furiously for the tech-cloaker with an old acquaintance Peter had honestly been surprised he had. He didn't seem to be the type to collect many friends, but apparently one had been just familiar enough with him to accept a trade.

It had been one hell of a gun that exchanged hands.

Cloaking devices were tricky things, heavily policed by the Nova Corp, possession of an unregistered one could be a potential big issue; they were made even harder to come by when you considered the technology was Kree in origin. The actual device itself was picky, most likely due to where it came from, and often shorted out, but at this point Peter had never been happier for it. It made attaching to the enemy ship and cutting their way through that much simpler, the Milano recently re-fitted with Ravager special boarding gear.

It helped when the enemy ship itself had shut down almost all systems except for life-support.

It was the way They worked, apparently. Hiding in plain sight, waiting until They were passed. It was the Guardian's luck that They were also telepathic, which was something they hadn't considered possible until they were right _there_. Until the Guardians had looked into Their eyes and been stripped bare, every fear, every secret taken, ripped from them, and reflected back to them in a way that they hadn't been able to resist.

Rocket apparently had been the most appealing.

They had, up until recently, been considered mainly a tale told to frighten children. But the Guardians had been going deeper into the fringes of known space, charting unknown parts of the Galaxy for Xandar, and had found more than a few things that should not exist.

It was easy enough to see why They were considered myth. They never stayed in one place, only going around to take someone, and then leaving. No one knew why They did it, but the Guardians could hazard a guess.

They left behind broken people.

The Guardians had been passing through when they had been contacted. They had been begged, pleaded with, sworn to that they would have more than a slight chance, they would have _every_ chance of stopping Them. The Guardians had a 'connection.' They hadn't known what that had meant, but one glimpse at the ones that They had left, one moment spent talking to the shattered husks left behind had been enough to convince them.

They would take that chance.

They had no name that the Guardians knew of, Their planet of origin lost to time. They had been chased across the galaxy at one point, driven into a state of near-extinction. It would have been sad if it wasn't for one of their own. If they hadn't seen what They did. The Guardians were past sympathy by this point. That didn't mean they were by the start of it. Before Rocket had been taken, before they had truly met Them, they had wondered whether it had to be this way.

The Guardians had also at one point been run from everything they touched, everything they had made contact with. They understood the pain of it, the bitterness that could rise up from it. They had hoped They could be reasoned with, that their shared experience would be something they could use to reach Them. It was a sentiment that hadn't come naturally to all of them, some more bitter and hurt than others, but they had eventually agreed to it, insisting that they needed to be prepared to fight if they needed to. This was agreed to, and they had gone, hoping that it would work.

They had never been more wrong and now one of them was paying for it.

The ship they had finally traced was small, naturally cloaked with its reflective surface that made them blend into the surrounding starscape, and due to its near-complete system shutdown, had no need of a cloaker. They were barely a blip in the radar, certainly not something the Guardians would have noticed if it hadn't been for Groot's ability to somehow pinpoint Rocket's location. Groot…who had no idea what they were up against or why…

They stayed dead like that for however long it took to escape notice, however long it took to do whatever it was that They did to Their newest victim, leaving them pale shades of what they had once been. The wisps of people they had met that had been left by them ghosted through their minds. They wouldn't let that happen to Rocket. They couldn't.

Groot did not have these images running through his head. He didn't need them, didn't need to know who they were facing or why, all he needed to know was currently thrumming in his head.

The orange had quit screaming for help.

The crackle had faded to a few paltry sparks, barely noticeable amongst the quickly dulling orange. It no longer reminded him of fire. There was instead the image of the faded, almost rusty color of a dying leaf, brittle, tattered, barely clinging to the tree that it came from. Groot had never been more afraid. Even with Ronan, even when Groot was almost certain there would be no coming back, it had been worth it. Rocket would have been safe. His friends would have been safe. Now…

It felt like the orange had given up.

Groot would take whoever or whatever had done this and _break_ them.

The inside of the ship was dark, a dull-red glow coming from little strips along the walls, casting more shadows than they did light. The eerie stillness was something they were loath to break, the hollow kind of emptiness that came from a ship that was too empty, almost paradoxically ringing with it. They were tense as a bowstring, Peter taking point with his guns held ready before him, boots making soft clanking sounds as he walked over the metal mesh that made the floor.

The walls appeared almost skeletal, various panels yawning open, revealing the guts beneath, wires and pipes a messy tangle. It smelled musty, the air thick and heavy. Peter was certain something would jump out at them at any moment now, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Drax shifted his grip on his knives as Gamora brought her sword into a two-handed grip, her stance broadening.

Groot gave a soft hum and with a slow sweep of his arm, sent thousands of puffs of golden light into the air around them. They weren't going to hide. The hull-breach would already have alerted Them, so the fact that They weren't immediately gunning for them was more than a little off-putting. The fact that none of the inner doors had closed them in was also more than a little worrying.

They knew the Guardians had come for their own. Why weren't They responding?

The lights floated before them, drifting down the hallway, almost dancing, chasing away the shadows. They didn't know what they would do without Groot.

Gamora froze suddenly, frowning, holding up her hand to signal for everyone to stop moving, and pointed to her ear. They waited, listening, bodies tense for whatever sound she had heard to come again.

Peter frowned, ears straining as he leaned slightly forward. Gamora was enhanced in more ways than in just physical strength and reflexes. Her other senses had also been heightened, making the possibility he could hear what she heard limited, but it was so _still_…

_Silence_…

Suddenly he heard it, echoing down the halls, high-pitched, hitched and brittle. It took him a moment to recognize it, the sound one long-forgotten, pushed down into the recesses of his memory as something no longer important. It belonged to a past life, to a planet he had never worked up the courage to go to again. The moment Peter recognized it was the moment all the blood drained from his face. The rest of his team had barely registered his reaction, before Peter was _running_.

He no longer cared about the fact that it was too confined, that a trap was potentially imminent, Peter _knew that sound_. Heart in his throat, he heard the rest pounding after him, following his lead, even into this, Groot's lights left far behind as they charged headlong into darkness. He had a moment to feel very proud past the fear bubbling in his throat. They trusted him enough to follow, and he knew he had his back. They needed to get to Rocket. He recognized that sharp, whistling cry, had heard it once when his Grandpa had been attempting to clear out the hayloft in the barn for storage and had managed to uncover a small group of them.

If he had ever had any doubts about Rocket's origin, they were gone now, shattered with a sound he had never thought he would hear, and one he now never wanted to hear again. It was the sound of a raccoon in distress, a sharp whistling call that echoed down the halls and rang in Peter's ears.

Peter attempted to skid to a halt at the sudden sound of a shrieking, gurgling call that seemed to echo from all directions at once. The sight of a large black shape scuttling along the ceiling towards them made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He aimed his pistols, sending two shots careening down the hallway.

His only indication that something was strange about it was when Gamora shouted his name, confusion and a slight tinge of fear in her voice. There was a good reason for this. Weakened as the internal structure of the ship was, Peter could ill afford to miss. It was only thanks to a mixture of dumb luck and the fact that his weapon was on a lower setting that it didn't immediately punch a molten hole in the ceiling. Gamora grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back, her expression a mixture of anger and concern.

"Why did you shoot?"

"There was something there! I swear, I saw something coming right towards us."

There was an immediate silence. "I saw nothing," Drax stated finally, looking back the way Peter had shot, examining the smoke rising from where it had hit. He frowned slightly, opening his mouth to continue speaking, drawing their attention, only to freeze. His expression was one of quiet shock, slowly changing to something pained.

"What do you see?" Gamora asked instantly. She did not believe Peter or her friend Drax to be crazy, which meant that there was something else going on. Something else they were seeing.

"I see my dead child and wife at the end of the hall. They are soaked in red." Their bodies stiffened, turning in the direction Drax was staring. They saw nothing, but Drax saw them standing there, his wife's face turned towards him, her head partially caved in. Blood splattered across her face, dripping down her body, staining the white garment she was clothed in red, the liquid pooling on the floor. She held hands with their daughter, a bloody open-wound in her chest. He could see her still-beating heart.

Gamora gripped his hand, even as Peter took his shoulder, the both of them seeking to ground him. Drax blinked, and she stood in front of him, empty eye-sockets boring into his soul, a grave-worm wiggling its way out of her head to plop onto their daughter's hair. It immediately began digging deep, boring through skin and bone to reach the softness beneath.

"_Father…why did you let us die?"_ Drax recoiled, knives dropping to the floor.

Gamora had started coughing, the smell of smoke hanging in the air, acrid and sharp, clinging to her lungs. She didn't notice that she had let go of Drax, backing away slowly. Flames were licking up the sides of the ship, blackening already twisted metal. The smell itself had changed, turning to something that made an instinctive part of her mind recoil. She knew that smell.

Burning flesh.

It got closer, suffocating her, drowning her senses. She stumbled back, wiping at her eyes blindly, and black smoke surrounding her. She couldn't see, she couldn't breathe.

Peter's world had been transformed to white. White walls, white floors, and at the end of the hall his mother. She stood there in her hospital gown, skin blending in so well with the white he could barely tell where she ended and the walls began. Her breath was shallow, skin drawn so tight across her bones that he could see her collarbones perfectly formed, her gown hanging off of one shoulder. Her face was hollow, her nose bleeding, and her eyes…

"_Peter…"_ Her voice echoed to him, his body tensing in shock. _"Why didn't you take my hand?" _She took a step towards him, holding out a hand that seemed to decay, bone beginning to peek through the rotting flesh. He backed away, shaking his head, fear welling up in him._ "Don't you love me, Peter?"_ Peter fell to his knees and for the second time that day, tears came to his eyes.

They were lost.

Groot had been startled at the sudden appearance of something black reaching out for his friends' auras. He hadn't even noticed at first, so focused on running towards the source of that sound that the initial attempt on Peter hadn't even been felt. But now, now that his friends reeled, lost in their own personal hell, Groot understood what was going on. He could see it, vile and bubbling, choking the red, blue, and yellow in a mass of black. It was being absorbed, the colors accepting it without question, the onslaught too quick and too violent to be resisted.

He noticed, however, that the black had merely dragged certain things to the surface; certain fears and secrets pulled free and let loose. Their auras, _they_, filled in the rest. Groot was worried. He did not know where it came from, could not follow the lack of color that swallowed them whole. He reached out, touching Gamora's shoulder, only for her to give a sound he had never heard before, a broken sob that she half-choked herself on trying to keep down.

She was looking right at him.

Gamora stumbled back from the sight before her. She hadn't meant to turn around, but there had been a touch on her shoulder and now she was facing it. Her father stood before her, burned, blackened, blood slowly oozing from his wounds, and his mouth finally opened.

"_I'm disappointed." _The words rang through her mind clear as a bell, making her jerk back._ "You gave into our murderer…" _She took a step back, eyes wide. _"You became a monster…"_ She swallowed, taking another step. _"You should have _died_ before you gave into him." _

Gamora ran.

Groot reached out with his arm, whipping his vines out and wrapping them around her waist, dragging her back. That black was wrapped around her tighter than anything he had ever seen, and suddenly he knew what this was.

Groot was not a natural telepath. While he did have his own methods which relied primarily on emotion and a fair bit on color, he could not enter another's mind fully without someone to let him in. He could not counter what they were feeling unless they _wanted_ him to.

Gamora turned, looking back at the thing that held her with eyes full of fear. Her father had changed, stretched, and suddenly he wasn't her father at all, but Thanos. She felt like she was dreaming. Fallen into some horrible nightmare, but it felt so _real_.

"_Did you think you could run?" _He spoke, his mouth pulled into that mad grin that she knew so well, and the smoke grew thicker around her, choking her. _"I made you."_ He pulled her closer. _"I know you." _She struggled, pulling back, her eyes wide, watering from smoke. _"I know the blackness in your heart."_ She bared her teeth, trying to reach her sword. _"How does it feel, wench?"_ If she could get her sword she could get free… _"Knowing that now they know, just what kind of monster you are?" _

Suddenly she could see, and her friends were around her, bodies bloody, eyes glassy, staring up at nothing, and her hands…her hands were bathed in red.

She screamed, her sword finally coming out and hacking against him, refusing to look at the blade which was coated in red. She understood. It was somehow his fault. _He_ had done this.

Groot almost recoiled at the sudden cry, the slash of her blade into his bark, sending chips flying. He let out a whine, his gold seeking her blue, trying to force his way through the black. He didn't know where she was, what terrible things her mind was forcing upon her, but he didn't like it. He didn't like any of it.

The black started to converge on him, and for just one moment Groot was stuck on Ronan's ship, they were all going to die, and he needed to save them. The fear, the pain once again pulsed through him, and Groot almost cowered, not quite prepared for the sudden rush. He felt the ground come towards him, that fear pulsing in him, and he felt that black attempt to suck that down.

He shook it off with a mighty roar of, "I am **Groot**!"

He did not regret that moment, he had had no lasting fear. It was the only way his friends would have survived. He would do it again in a heartbeat. It had been _worth_ it. No black, no pain, would ever tell him otherwise.

He grabbed Gamora tighter, whining low in his throat. He needed her to come back to him. He took her with his other arm, with his vines, trying to pull her back, trying to get her close where he could restrain her and try and pull that black off of her.

He may not be able to get in, but that did not make him totally helpless. That was the moment when Drax and Peter looked towards him, their eyes glassy, that black wrapped around them.

Suddenly Groot was afraid.

The return of that keening cry that he barely recognized as coming from Rocket was enough to send his head up, looking past the other two. It was sharper, louder than it had been, and the sudden realization that something was being done to him now, while his other friends were ensnared by their own pain…

The sudden impact of a shoulder to his stomach almost made his grip on Gamora fail. He fell backwards with it, toppling as Drax slammed into him.

"_Avenge us, father…avenge us!"_ His family whispered in his ear, and Drax attacked as though his life depended on it. Ronan was dead, but he was not the one behind it. Thanos must be destroyed.

The only positive Groot could see was that Gamora had lost her grip on her sword, the weapon falling to the ground beside him. He kept his grip on her, lengthening the vines, sending her out of range. He didn't want her attacked as well.

It was only as a sudden rush of heat and sudden pain struck him that he remembered that Peter had his pistols. Fire could hurt a Flora Colossus. The bullets had serious heat, sparking in his core.

He shifted his body around them, letting them fall through and to the ground, leaving a hissing hole in his chest, even as his other arm came out, vines reaching out for Peter's guns. They were shot repeatedly, falling to the ground, a mass of torn up vegetable matter, more coming to take their place until finally, they were grabbed and ripped away, sent careening down the hall. Peter fell back as though struck, hands going up to cover his face, hunching over his stomach.

"_You were always weak…"_

Groot had a moment to feel worried before a sharp _something_ was stabbed deep into his chest. Drax had found his knives. His vines whipped out again, wrapping around The Destroyer and lifting him up from his position. They were cut through, Drax dropping down to land on his chest, his knives taken up and bearing down on his face. Groot barely managed to duck out of the way.

While they wouldn't kill him, it still was never nice to have something jammed into you, particularly when you were trying to concentrate. He managed to swing his arm up and around, launching Drax into the wall, where his vines pinned him in place. Drax snarled at him, inarticulate with what looked like rage and grief. His hands got to work peeling them apart, and Groot could barely keep up with the number he was tearing.

And then Drax was on top of him again.

Groot had not wanted to hurt any of his friends. They were not entirely there, trapped in their own hell. But he needed to get them to stop. He needed to get to Rocket…he needed to get them _out_, and he was running out of options.

Groot let out a roar, sending his arm sweeping Drax to the side once more, rolling to his hands and knees and moving forward. He pinned him to the ground, "I am Groot!" He bellowed, shoving him down, fighting against The Destroyer who lashed out at him with savage ferocity. That was the moment when Gamora leaped onto him, sword running through his chest, barely missing impaling the Destroyer, and Groot finally let himself fall.

...

**So I went to do a thing, and then I did another thing instead and then I don't even know... At least I explained...**

**The tech-cloaker is a thing. I lied about the origin, but as where it actually comes from hadn't been mentioned I was kind of hesitant to use its actual origin. It also meant I could have fun with what it actually did. So I just went with something else that would be damn hard to get and went with it. **

**That said, as you've probably noticed I went and took a stand on 'is he a raccoon or isn't he' thing. I went with yes. Few reasons, most wrap around the art book which I've recently acquired and what the director himself said about him. **

**"He was an animal, a simple beast, torn apart and put back together in a series of horrifying experiments, and now he was completely, and utterly, alone." And, more importantly: "And the raccoon, the raccoon that initially seemed to be such a hurdle-the raccoon was the best part." **

**I am aware that in the comics he is never referred to as a Raccoon other than by name, similarly with the various TV appearances he's made. Buuut...there you have it. Raccoon. (To be fair I would have chosen that anyway, I have an end goal, people. He needs to be a raccoon.) That said, if you want to know anything in particular about the characters, from what Drax' tattoos mean, to Rocket's actual height (two and a half feet tall) toss me a PM. I don't bite. And I really do recommend buying that art book. It's wonderful.**


End file.
